The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  The light post cracked again, this time separating from its base, the Void cloud hurtling it toward the east wing. No one moved for a moment, and then the Bloodeye slowly rose to his feet, tangled chains hanging from his shoulders while still attached to the post.

  He opened his mouth in a scream, but no sound came out. Yellowish foam had clotted his gunshot wounds and the man’s face looked broken and inhuman. He lunged at the nearest worker, but the chains pulled tight against the post, dropping him to the ground. In a fit of rage, he began to yank on his confines, shaking and tugging with a measure of strength enhanced by his horrible condition.

  Quarrah scrambled back to where Lord Dulith was lying on the ground, propped on one elbow to witness the Bloodeye’s escape. There was a cut on Dulith’s forehead from his struggle with Quarrah. The rain had washed the blood across his face, giving him a wild visage not unlike the Moonsick man.

  “Get your son out of here!” Quarrah shouted at him. “Take him inside and barricade the door.” Pasic was standing as still as a statue, his sunken eyes wide as the three remaining laborers kept their distance from the Bloodeye, stout swords brandished. Totshin was nowhere to be found.

  Dulith shoved Quarrah back and rose to his knees. “Don’t kill it!” he shouted at the workers. “That honor must go to my son!”

  As he barked his demands, the Moonsick man finally broke away from the post. A length of chain whipped around in his raw hands, the end catching one of the laborers across the face, dropping him, writhing.

  Quarrah fired the Roller again, the ball striking the Bloodeye’s shoulder. She pulled the trigger once more, but the Slagstone hammer sent a sizzle of sparks into an empty chamber. Those six shots had gone much too quickly.

  She tossed aside the Roller as the Bloodeye made a reckless charge across the courtyard. Wisely disregarding Dulith’s instructions, one of the laborers took a swing at the passing man. His sword cleaved into the monster’s left arm, severing it just above the elbow.

  The heavy blow sent the Bloodeye reeling sideways, landing facedown on the bricks. Dulith hurled something and Quarrah heard the clay pot shatter. In response to the sparks, a dome of Barrier Grit sprang up behind the Moonsick man, enclosing only his legs and making it impossible for him to wriggle free.

  “Pasic,” his father cried, jolting his son from a horrified reverie. Dulith ran to him, somehow holding a fresh Roller. “Now!” He shoved the gun into the lad’s hand. “Your mother would want this. Finish him.”

  The boy stepped closer to the Bloodeye. His thumb was too weak to pull back the Slagstone hammer, so he used the palm of his other hand to do it.

  Quarrah moved to intercept, but Pasic saw her coming. He spun, leveling the gun at her. In the adrenaline of the moment, she had little doubt that he’d pull the trigger if she continued to provoke him. She stood still, raising her hands innocently.

  “Father knows what’s best,” the boy said. Then he turned and fired the Roller at the Bloodeye’s head. Quarrah winced at the spray of carnage, knowing that he’d found his mark.

  “Again!” Lord Dulith bellowed, his hands clasped together as he watched.

  Pasic fired once more, his aim as true as the first.

  “Again! Again! Again!” Dulith was screaming, his face seized with the bitter throes of vengeance. His son unloaded the entire Roller into the Bloodeye’s head until the skull was broken open and the corpse lay still. Rivulets of blood flowed with the rain, finding channels between bricks in a grid of gore.

  “How did it feel, my boy?” Lord Dulith took a halting step forward, hands still clasped like a servant checking to make sure the food was satisfactory. “Do you remember her? Do you remember how much she loved you?”

  Pasic looked up slowly through the haze of Blast smoke, his young face spattered with the Moonsick man’s blood. His hollow eyes looked more sunken and hopeless than before, but there was a new spark of darkness in his gaze.

  “I want another.”

  “Yes,” the twisted man whispered. Then Dulith’s eyes flicked to Quarrah. “Hold her!” he bellowed to the two remaining laborers.

  Was Quarrah intended to be the boy’s next victim? Or did Lord Dulith think she could get him more Bloodeyes? Either way, she didn’t plan to stick around and find out.

  She bolted for the doorway into the manor, but Totshin had finally reappeared with a gun in his hand. No problem. Quarrah had already surveyed the courtyard for every potential route of escape. At this point, her best option was to leap from one of those benches and Drift Jump to that second-story window.

  Careening away from Totshin, Quarrah moved toward the benches, only to find her route blocked by one of the laborers who had taken up position in front of the sand pit.

  Her hand flashed to her belt, plucking out a vial of purple liquid. She pitched it at the worker in a soft arc, watching him bring up his sword to deflect. The glass shattered against the broad blade and a cloud of Gather Grit sprung up, with him at the center. It wasn’t Compounded enough to break his bones, but the inward pull—the reverse effect of Void Grit—would keep him contained.

  The wet sand from the sailor’s folly pit was drawn by the Gather Grit, glomming on to the worker until only his hands were visible, swiping desperately to clear the sand from his face. A few loose bricks from the courtyard also pelted into him, but he probably couldn’t even feel them through his new coat of sand.

  The distraction was exactly what Quarrah had hoped for. She skirted the perimeter of the Gather cloud, slipping a pot of Drift Grit from her belt. She hurled it ahead of her, sparking the Slagstone against the wall of the east wing. Leaping onto the bench, she sprinted two steps down its length before launching herself into the Drift cloud.

  Weightlessness surrounded her, momentum carrying her upward until she hit the wall, her hands gripping the second-story windowsill with practiced precision.

  She never felt as refined, performing stunts like these in her regular clothing. Her black thief’s garb was much sleeker, and her Grit teabags were far less bulky than the wide leather Grit belt she currently wore.

  Quarrah hoisted herself up, shoulder pushing the foggy glass open so she could roll into the room. This was clearly a bedroom, gratefully unoccupied. She crossed to the door, but her eye caught a silver hair comb on the stand beside the bed. A three-step detour, and she had the item in hand. Now that she was here, she realized that the painted vase would fetch a decent price, too. And that scarf was pure silk, with tiny gemstones embroidered along its length.

  This was more than fair, considering it was unlikely that Lord Dulith was going to pay her now. With the comb in her belt pouch, the vase under one arm, and the scarf flung about her neck, Quarrah moved into the corridor. She was almost to the stairs when crescendoing shouts rose to meet her.

  She doubled back, taking a moment to scan the great room she had previously blown past. She didn’t see a suitable place to hide, but that old jeweled broadsword hanging above the mantel might be worth something…

  Getting the sword down proved more difficult than expected. When it finally came free, the lump of steel turned out to be surprisingly heavy. The sword clanged to the floor, narrowly missing the vase she’d set down. A little adjusting and she’d probably be able to carry everything. But that gold sconce on the opposite wall looked mighty tempting.

  She had just finished prying it loose with her sword when the voices reached her. Six armed staffers led by Totshin, who had donned a Grit belt to accompany his Roller. Quarrah was standing on the far side of the great room when they entered, laden with spoils that earned a loud curse from Totshin.

  “Halt!” the attendant ordered. No one immediately opened fire, which reminded Quarrah that Lord Dulith still had plans for her.

  If she’d had a free hand, a single detonation of Barrier Grit could have plugged the corridor between them. Instead, she’d have to settle for a footrace.

  Quarrah turned and bolted back in the direction of the bedroom where sh
e’d found the comb. According to her surveillance, she was headed in the direction of the servants’ quarters. But there wouldn’t be access to that area from the second floor.

  Sparks! This was a dead end.

  Wait. She’d seen a waste lagoon on the east side of the property. There were access chutes from this wing! If her spatial judgment was right—and it almost always was—the next door on the right would get her there. Now, if only she had a free hand to open it.

  Taking a deep breath, Quarrah tossed the vase into the air, pushed open the door, and caught the fragile pottery against her chest as it came down. Ha! That was a fine trick. She kicked the door shut behind her and threw her back against it as she examined the room.

  This was little more than a closet stocked with chamber pots and cleaning supplies. The foul odor of human waste filled the space and she quickly identified its source. Rising from floor to ceiling was the waste chute. It looked like a metal chimney with a hinged wooden door covering an opening on the side. Only about two feet square, but Quarrah had squeezed through many a tight space in her day.

  She shuffled the vase into the crook of her arm so she could reach a pot of Barrier Grit on her belt. She’d need a little time to work her way down the chute, and if her enemies caught up to her before she reached the bottom, finishing her off would be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. And conveniently for her attackers, Quarrah’s body would be deposited in the refuse lagoon below.

  Her hand had just found the pot she was looking for when the door bucked against her back. She lurched forward, the fragile vase slipping from her arm. She flinched as it shattered, the sound of lost Ashings clattering around her feet. But glancing down, she saw that it hadn’t been empty. There was a folded piece of paper among the shards.

  A grin touched her face as the door heaved against her back again. Noble folks were always stashing valuable documents inside other valuable items—gold-trimmed boxes, musical instruments, painted vases.

  She kicked the broken pieces across the small room, the paper carried along with it. Then she leapt from the door, hurling the Barrier pot behind her. The door swung inward, stopping just a foot or two ajar as the Grit detonated, creating an impassible block. These people wouldn’t know about Null Grit, so she had no reason to rush.

  Stooping, she flicked aside pieces of the shattered vase and plucked up the folded paper. Unable to put off her curiosity, she unfolded it for a quick glance.

  The sounds of the men struggling at the door faded as Quarrah’s heartbeat seemed to fill the room. She forgot about the danger. She forgot about escape.

  She reread the note.

  Quarrah Khai—Tofar’s Salts. 8th of 3rd. Noon. Ask to see the Be’Igoth.

  She turned to the door and saw Totshin shoving helplessly against the transparent shell of the Barrier cloud.

  Quarrah held up the note, her eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare. “Did you know…” But she trailed off on her own. Of course Totshin didn’t know about the note in the vase. How could anyone have known she was going to flee through that particular bedroom, steal that particular item…

  She tucked the note into a vacant pouch on her Grit belt, returning to the matter of her escape. Taking the final steps, she lifted the cover to gain access to the chute. The rising stench choked her, and she turned away to cough. Holding her breath, Quarrah stuck her head inside to examine her last-ditch escape route.

  The chute rose vertically to the third floor and dropped straight down about fifteen feet. At the bottom, she could see that the metal was bent at an angle, directing any dumped refuse outward to the waiting lagoon.

  She had to admit, this wasn’t the most desirable way to leave a manor. But she was committed to the plan now. Nothing to do but slide down the refuse chute.

  Flames, Quarrah thought. This sword better be worth a lot of Ashings.

  We have all seen terrible things. But the memories that haunt me the most are of the mistakes I could have avoided.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Ard hated studying. Sparks, he even hated reading most of the time. He’d gotten this far in life thanks to Raekon Dorrel, who’d been his tutor and primary exam-taker through Ard’s last few years of schooling.

  The fact that he was here now, tucked away in Cove 7, his desk littered with books and notes, was nothing shy of a genuine miracle. And that he’d been studying earnestly like this for just over a year was unfathomable—even to himself.

  As a Holy Isle, Ard had the right to block out certain periods of the day for private study, much to the chagrin of the long list of people hoping to meet with him each day for guidance. He enjoyed those visits, of course. Believing Wayfarists were prone to divulge all kinds of useful secrets in the privacy of the Cove. And Ardor Benn, doing what came naturally, would tell them whatever they wanted to hear to make sure they sang his praises across Beripent, solidifying his position at the Mooring.

  Despite his distaste for the studying, that was what had brought him here. And his studies were what drove him forward in this strange new lifestyle.

  Ard turned back to his notes, finger tracing under the scripture he’d just copied.

  All of life will move this way and that, rolling like a great sphere.

  All right, but what did that mean? Ard found the language in Wayfarist Voyage to be highly confusing. It was no wonder so many Homelandic religions had sprouted from this text.

  What was he doing so far afield from his original topic of study? He’d joined the Islehood for one reason—to learn more about the Great Egress.

  Over the last year, Ard had compiled an entire book of notes about the supposed mass exodus of the true believers. Naturally, all the writings he could find in the Mooring library supported the Wayfarist interpretation of that event—that the Great Egress was a metaphorical departure from a Settled lifestyle to a holier one of worshiping the Homeland.

  The Realm had interpreted it as a physical departure, sending hundreds of ships sailing into the unknown sea with faith that would carry them to the Homeland. Of course, the Realm had been exploiting this idea, with hopes to purge the Greater Chain of Wayfarism and eliminate its influence on society.

  Ard’s personal findings on the topic remained very inconclusive, despite knowing so much about the truths of the world—the dragons’ shield from Moonsickness, the time-traveling nature of Paladin Visitants, the forgotten kingdom at the bottom of the sea where all humankind had originated, the Trothians’ devolution from a superior race, and Gloristar’s transformation into it… None of that seemed to give him any definitive insight on what the scriptures called “the Great Egress.”

  When that topic had yielded nothing but frustration, Ard’s attention had shifted to this.

  The sphere.

  Honestly, it was something Ard had entirely forgotten about until he’d stumbled across a certain verse about three cycles ago.

  Though we struggle in a line, the circle saves, and the sphere governs all.

  That simple line had reminded him of something Gloristar had said in the throne room on the fateful night of her transformation. Shad Agaul had been shot on the throne and Quarrah had asked Gloristar if there was anything she could do for the boy. Homeland knew they’d seen her perform other amazing feats that night.

  Gloristar’s answer had been cryptic. “Not until the Sphere is complete. For now there is an order to life and a time for death.”

  Ard turned a page of his book, studying his notes. Half the time, he couldn’t even read his own handwriting. He really wasn’t very good at this scholarly stuff. But in keeping with the meaning of his religious name, Ardor Benn felt compelled with a passionate drive to continue his work. Maybe he was close to finding something important. Then everything would make sense.

  The circle saves.

  Ard knew the circle was the symbol of the Homeland, so reverenced that it wasn’t often displayed in a religious context. In Wayfarism, the sign of the anchor had largely replaced it, repres
entative of the weight of life’s troubles that threatened to cause believers to Settle.

  The sphere governs all.

  Ard had absently doodled all around that sentence, his jumbled notes a reflection of his mind on the matter. What sphere? Was it some kind of physical structure that needed to be built? If it had been completed, could Gloristar have stopped Shad Agaul from dying?

  There was a knock at the Cove door. Ard perked up, glancing at the little mantel clock on the edge of his desk. All the Coves had them now—not Gregious Mas models, but that clockmaker wasn’t the big fish he’d been two years ago. His competitors were making quality clocks at a fraction of the price. Mas’s fame and notoriety had been short lived, a very telling aspect of today’s society.

  “Come in,” Ard said, surprised that Raek was so early for their “guidance.” He quickly closed his notebook and stacked a heavy book on top of it. It was fine to put on the appearance of studying, but Raek would know something was off if Ard looked too genuine in his work.

  The door opened and Ard stiffened to see that it wasn’t his old friend paying a visit. He rose from his desk, smoothing his sea-green robes and nodding his head respectfully.

  “Prime Isle Trable,” Ard greeted his visitor. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Relax, Ardor,” Trable said, closing the door behind him. “And have a seat.”

  Olstad Trable was young for a Prime Isle. A little digging and Ard had found out that the man was just a year his elder. He had black hair, tawny skin, and a trim beard to frame his square jaw. And according to public consent, he was by far the handsomest Prime Isle in the last century.

  Trable sat down on the bench, crossing his legs under his purple robes. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

  “You’re killing me, Ard,” he finally said.

  “I’m sorry?” he replied innocently. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Don’t give me that slag,” the Prime Isle replied. “You know why I’m here.”